Stripes
by zedrobber
Summary: Thor looks back at the time between Loki's capture in the Avengers, and his death in The Dark World. Angst, mention of rape, mention of violence and description of injury.


We had precious few moments alone between returning to Asgard and your trial at the hands of our- _my-_ father. Mere hours, barely a whisper of time to such as us. I was told to guard you; to ensure you were clean and presentable for the trial. I detested the very thought of such a duty.

You barely looked at me as I led you to my quarters by the chains on your wrists. Each _clink_ of metal made me shudder with revulsion inside. To be leading you like a beast was unnatural. You stared down at your shackled feet steadily; your face bruised and bloody beneath that awful mouth gag. Your eyes were hard, like cold flint, and though I tried to catch your attention several times, you barely even glanced my way.

Where had we gone wrong? How had _I_ wronged you, to lead you to this insanity? You had been innocent, once; we had both been naïve and stupid, our plans no greater than the day's adventure. Now you stood before me as a murderer; as one who had betrayed his land and his family, who sought dominion over Midgard for his own gain.

I could not accept it- could not even begin to comprehend your actions. And yet you had told me yourself that it was _you_ and you alone who had made the decision to cause such chaos.

It did not sound like you, brother. Your voice was flat, toneless in a way I had not heard it. I did not understand then. I wish I still did not.

"You must wash yourself," I said softly, gesturing to the bowl of clean water and the cloth that stood on my table.

You raised an eyebrow, and then your hands, pulling at the cuffs to make them taut. I could not help but notice the way the muscles in your wrists tightened also. I licked my lips, angry at my own lack of focus. I could not allow myself to care for you; not now, not ever again. I would lose you all too soon, and the pain would be that much harder to bear with a bittersweet goodbye.

I unlocked those cuffs silently, my calloused fingertips hesitating perhaps a moment too long over the sensitive, painful flesh of your wrists; a half-caress that I knew you would notice but could not manage to hold back from. You shuddered, your eyes half closing, before shaking your head and turning from me almost haughtily. I hesitated, my hands hovering in the air behind your shoulders, before reaching to untie that gag. I hated it; it felt like I was muzzling an animal for slaughter. I tossed it aside, watching as you licked your lips slowly, dipping one finger languidly into the bowl of cool water and lifting it to your mouth, sucking the moisture from it almost obscenely. Then you inclined your head, catching my gaze on you, and you smiled faintly.

"Do I really require a guard to wash myself? I have been doing it for some years now." Your voice, cracked and hoarse, jolted me back from my inappropriate thoughts, and I flushed, turning away before I really understood why. I heard the rustle and soft thud of your clothes hitting the cold floor. I fixed my attention on the roaring fire before me; its warm, golden glow dragging my memory back to hazy days in the sunshine, of innocent kisses quickly becoming less than childish, more urgent and desperate. The clear splash and gurgle of water as you began to wash the grime of battle from your skin brought me back again, and I glanced towards you to ensure no trickery-

_By all the Gods, what is that-_

You were covered in injuries that I knew for certain none of the team on Midgard had caused- if any had attempted so, they would have been swiftly killed for it. Your pale skin, once so perfect I could barely believe it to be truly yours, was _ruined_. From head to toe, you looked like one who had been so brutally tortured as to be completely broken- and yet there you were, standing and almost as you had always been.

"Loki-" I gasped out, unable to stop myself, and you swiftly put up an illusion, hiding the damage from me. It was branded into my mind's eye though; forever, my rage burning and deadly for the ones who had caused it. _You lied. You were forced- I can save you, we can tell Father—_

I was naïve still, I admit; my desperation to have to back as though none of this had happened so strong that I was willing to do anything.

"Yes, brother?" you spat, pretending you were not wincing with each movement as you whirled around to face me. "Do you see something you like?"

I wondered then how I had so wilfully ignored the signs; how I could have mistaken your crooked, limping posture for feigned injury, how I ignored those terrible, dark circles beneath your eyes as mere symptoms of your insanity. You were in agony, and no illusion, not even one as powerful as you were able to conjure, would hide it from me now that I had _seen_ you.

"I do not," I managed to grind out through gritted teeth. "I see much that I wish to undo."

"Pity," you shrugged, turning as if to continue your bathing. Even though I now knew the pain you must be in, your movements were lithe, graceful; deliberately so, if I knew you. I stepped towards you, my hands trembling at my sides as I warred with myself. You were proud, arrogant; you always have been, and it has both fascinated and infuriated me for our whole lives together. The curious mix of self-loathing and vanity you possess is a heady, intoxicating thing; I doubt you were even aware of how it affected me, made me wish to protect you in the same breath as beat you to the ground mercilessly.

Making no indication that you knew I was behind you, you continued to wash, the dirt and blood caked onto your skin dripping in rivulets down your forearms, splattering to the ground with soft patters like rain. Your muscles flexed, and even though I knew it was an illusion I was still drawn like a moth to flame, watching water tinted with crimson stripe a path through the dirt on your back and down. I could _smell_ you from this distance; that clean, always faintly exotic scent now mixed with the coppery tang of blood and an earthier smell that I knew now to be Midgard. I reached out to you with shivering fingers, looking in awe at how large and clumsy my hand looked just touching you, my skin rough and scarred against your pale perfection- even if it was a lie, I still recalled when it had been the truth.

You seemed to freeze as my finger brushed across the nape of your neck; like an animal caught between fight and flight, you almost thrummed with potential energy under my touch, the illusion wavering as you fought for control. Your skin was cool; I had always wondered if it hurt you to bear my touch, if it felt like a brand on your flesh. I grasped the back of your neck firmly, stroked my fingers across your skin and felt you push back against my hand like a kitten desperate for affection even as the rest of you pulled away, dragging yourself from my caress wilfully. I caught the regret in your eyes before you locked it away tight, sneering at me from a mere foot away.

"Sentiment again, brother? I thought you would have learned by now." You pushed at my side, twisting your fingers viciously into the wound you had made only hours earlier. I groaned, staggering back a pace as the pain flared up once more. It was not a serious injury, but it was fresh and hot with agony. You looked triumphant- and terrified, like the child you once were when anger had gotten the better of you and you had retaliated. I shook myself, the pain almost forgotten already, and reached for you again.

"No- no," you shook your head, eyes wide and distressed, stepping away even as I caught your arm. You cried out, but I had you in my grip and wasn't about to let you go, even if it did hurt. I had to see what they had done, had to try and fix you. I pulled you to my bed, pushing you down onto your stomach. "Stay there."

"I will not-" you muttered, indignant, but I had picked up the wet cloth and was straddling your hips, stopping your movement. You shoved your head into the pillow, determined to ignore me. The illusion wavered again.

"Let it go," I urged, and you ignored me. I saw your shoulders shaking silently, and my heart ached for your pain and fear. You had always hidden your tears from me when possible; masking them with anger or sarcasm as I suppose many young boys do- but I knew you better than you knew yourself, my brother, and I knew your rage only ever covered up a deep, crippling sense of failure and _wrongness_ that I had never been able to assuage.

I stayed silent, waiting for you as I always had. You could not be forced into anything; neither fun nor chore.

"Will you get off me if I drop it?" you asked finally, muffled by the pillows. "Your great body mass is crushing me."

"No."

"And so my motivation is what, exactly?"

"I'll get off you even less quickly if you remain as stubborn as you are."

"Ugh. I hate you."

I almost smiled; you never said that if you were not at least partially being affectionate- and whether it had been simple habit or not, it warmed me to hear it. It gave me hope that perhaps we could be as we once had.

I remained in silence, waiting for you to submit.

Finally, with an exasperated sigh that sounded for all the world as though I was merely forcing you to eat your vegetables, you let the illusion shimmer to nothing and I got a good look at your injuries.

Instantly, I felt bile rising in my throat, and an unquenchable fury in my chest.

You were supposed to be _mine_, and here you were, claimed as someone else's. It took me a moment to remember that this had not been consensual. I let my eyes wander over your battered skin; taking in the scars, some healed, many still raw and jagged and bleeding erratically, crudely and cruelly sliced into your flesh. I saw stripes, clear whiplash lines, still mottled and purple and angry. They crossed over each other, the bruises dark like a roiling storm where they met. It was shocking to see clear patches of unmarked skin between each wound, like a sudden beam of sunlight through a rainstorm. They looked somehow worse; naked and vulnerable between such horrors. You lay there silently, barely seeming to breathe, your face buried stubbornly in my pillows as I raked my eyes over your body. It was almost too much to take in at once; each new glance revealing fresh injury, more blood.

There was dried blood still crusted around each open cut, dirt embedded deep into the wounds and grazes. I began washing each injury methodically, being more gentle than I knew I could ever be, the cloth barely touching you. You screamed silently, your back arching almost impossibly, your fingers like claws in the sheets as you fought to stay quiet- and yet you allowed it, you let me clean your back as if it was inevitable. I caught a glimpse of screwed-shut eyes with tear-tracks through grimy skin as you thrashed, saw your muscles flex and clench with each new stroke of the cloth against your injuries, felt you shudder and tense as I cleaned you carefully, leaving no inch of you untouched with the rough, damp material. I dropped it behind me when I was satisfied, the whole rag now stained an angry red, and I surveyed my work. You subsided into tremors underneath me, your breaths harsh and panting, your skin beaded with sweat from the effort of your silence. My hands looked so brutish next to you, the pads of my fingers rough from heavy work and the grip of weapons, but I could not stop myself, needing to reassure my mind that you were there and whole.

I allowed my fingertips to drop onto your shoulders, ghosting across the bruises I found there like a kiss before moving on, swirling across your shoulder-blades, tracing over each angry stripe of the lash with infinite care and patience. You whined, seeming to stop breathing for a second, and I wondered if it was because it was bad or good. I could hardly believe what they had done to you; they had systematically broken your body, attempting to break your mind. I could see at least one barely healed fracture; your right arm, still held awkwardly but looking almost normal. I was certain there were more, hidden by your determination to look in control. I traced around the edge of the deeper wounds, not wishing to hurt you further, and as I dragged my fingers down your sides I could feel at least two broken ribs; you hitched in your breath painfully with each one I touched, tensing beneath my exploring hands as though afraid I would cause you further damage. Your hands were clenched tightly into the pillows, the knuckles white and bruised, your fingers shaking.

I felt sorrow wash over me like a cold river. You had been used, tortured- you were exhausted in body and mind, it was plain to see- and yet you were too proud, too defiant to admit that it had not been your own doing to use the Tesseract for all that evil. I was to blame, at least partly; I should have known, should have seen through your lies like I so often had in the past. I had been so blind.

I replaced my fingers with my lips, kissing as gently as I could over each injury to you as though apologising. I knew it could never come close.

You didn't know what to do; you went taut and still, as though it was difficult for you to understand the gentle touch on your ragged flesh. I persevered anyway, ensuring I kissed each wound on your body before I stopped.

"I'm sorry."

You held your breath, seemingly at a loss as to what to say to that. I could not recall the last time I had apologised to you. Finally you twisted your head painfully to look up at me, your eyes dark and full of emotion that I had no ability to fathom.

"Indeed?"

"Yes, brother- I have wronged you." I felt the weight of my responsibility for your actions, heavy on my shoulders. "I did not realise you were not acting alone, if I had I would never-"

You hissed in rage, throwing me off your back as easily as if I had been a child; I realised as I crashed to the floor that you had been allowing me to stay there all the time.

"I do not need your _sympathy_, Thor!" you snarled as you pushed yourself up to crouch on the bed, glaring up at me with your face twisted in anger. "I would do it again if I could."

Your lie was bad. I could see the agony in your expression even as you uttered it, your whole body trembling and swaying with the exertion of staying in that position. It must have been excruciating.

"Come with me," I urged, blinded to everything except the possibility of saving you. "We can speak to Father together; he will forgive you, he must-"

"I do not want his forgiveness!"

"But you are not to blame-"

"I am _always_ to blame, _brother!"_

I didn't know what to say to that. I was desperate to force you to come with me, right then; wanted to drag you if I had to. But you would not have admitted it had been anything other than your idea, I could see that even through my confusion and hope. You had sentenced yourself already, blaming your own actions even as you blamed me simultaneously.

I shook my head, not comprehending. "Please, brother."

"Stop calling me that."

"I cannot."

"You managed just fine when you were with your little friends."

I noted the way you spat the word, the way you dug your knuckles into the bed to avoid falling to one side. You were still beautiful to me, even as you clung precariously to your control and seemingly, to consciousness. I groaned to find myself at a loss- dare I speak to father alone, try to absolve you? You would surely kill me for such a trespass.

Instead I got to my feet, watching you flinch away from me as I moved to stand beside the bed. Your eyes were distrustful, wary- no doubt you thought I would force you to do as I wished. Your face was open and scared, no trace of the anger and pain of a few moments ago left. You looked like a child again, and my heart twisted to see you so conflicted. I reached out to you, wanting to reassure you somehow, but I only hurt you as you pulled away from me, my clumsy hand brushing against an open wound on your arm. You winced, and the child was gone, replaced once more by your fury. Yet you swayed with the effort of being awake, your limbs limp and heavy. Slowly you slid down into the bed again, hissing through gritted teeth as your injuries hit the cold sheets, pushing yourself onto your stomach to ease the pressure. "Go away," you muttered to me, turning your face away.

"No."

"Fine, then stay- I care little for your presence."

I sat on the edge of the bed next to you, pulling the sheet up over your frail-looking body. You ignored me, closing your eyes stubbornly. I'm sure you did not intend to, but you fell asleep almost immediately, your breathing easing into an almost normal rhythm. I felt desperately afraid you would not wake up.

I knew I could only let you sleep for an hour before we had to appear before our father. It would not be enough; not even a whole day of sleep could begin to repair the damage you had been dealt. It had to be enough for now, however. I shuffled across the bed, settling next to you as I so often had when we were young and uncomplicated. With a rueful smile, I allowed one hand to card through your hair gently, remembering all the years I had done so with you curled into my side, your warmth calming and welcome. You seemed to sigh in your sleep, nudging yourself closer to me so that you were pressed against my body. Your pale face seemed so innocent to me; ridiculous, I know, but I could not match that face to the one you so furiously tried to project to the world.

You were my brother; whether by blood or not, it had always been so.

I could not lose you, and yet I knew I must soon forget we were bound together- you were set on your path of self-destruction, determined to take my heart out with you, to rip it from my body as surely as if you had reached in with you hand and yanked it from me as it still beat. I would have to pretend I knew nothing of you, pretend I cared little of your punishment even as it ate me away inside, carving me out into a hollow shell with no laughter. You would rot in your cell and I would rot outside it, in a prison of my own. These things were facts; I knew that in less than two, perhaps three hours, I would no longer be allowed to think of you as my brother. I knew you would blame me as much as you now blamed yourself, and I couldn't even begin to hate you for it. My loathing was reserved for myself.

I watched over you as you slept there, brother; keeping watch over your dreams as best I could, soothing your shudders as you woke yourself up briefly with hysterical, screaming laughs of remembered pain before falling back under, your sobs quieting under my soothing hands. I do not know if you recall any of it.

The golden light of the Asgard day began to deepen, sun-striped lines creeping down the walls as the evening drew in. Your face was captured in burning gold light for a few minutes as I watched; the warmth of it on your skin beautiful beyond compare. I swore I would remember you like this, not as the monster you so wanted to be seen as.

You pushed yourself even closer to me, and I realised with some confusion that you were hard, your body tight against mine and your erection nudging at my hip insistently. I, being not too clever, assumed you were awakening. My mind recalled long, sun-soaked days of our youth, spent together of course; languid days of kisses becoming urgent, touches heated and needy. Your mouth was so soft then, a crooked smile never far from your lips as you kissed your way down my body, our skin unmarked and so beautiful. I remembered how we spent years learning every curve and hollow of each other's bodies.

My own cock was hard now, responding to memories I had long since attempted to forget. Looking down at you, I felt a surge of arousal; powerful enough to be almost painful, as only you ever dragged from me. It scared me. It always had scared me, to feel so at the mercy of my own desire for you. You affect me in ways that I had never believed possible, and they are not always easy to bear.

I reached for you, wanting you to know I was still here; my fingers traced over your cheek, I turned my body towards yours, wanting to feel you against me as we had so often done in the dark of night. My erection pressed against your stomach, my arms moving to the small of your back- even in the midst of my thoughts, I was careful to avoid the worst of your wounds.

You snapped awake in an instant, full-blown, honest panic flaring in your eyes as you stared at me seemingly uncomprehendingly. You went into flight mode; your limbs kicking out painfully, a ragged, terrified scream escaping you as you pushed as hard as you could, shoving yourself away from me. "No, no-no, not again, no," you muttered to yourself as you scrabbled backwards, tangling yourself in the sheets and eventually crashing to the floor in a painful, shaking heap. I was confused, feeling suddenly as though I had done something terribly wrong; as yet I had not realised what it was that had happened. I stared at you blankly. "What have I done to grieve you so, brother?"

"Not- not you," you heaved out through shuddering breaths. "Not you. Don't – don't touch me like that."

I blinked- I am afraid I must have looked so stupid as my slow, useless brain caught up. Of course, eventually even _I_ understood that you had undergone a much more insidious form of torture at the hands of that _filthy_ creature and its kind. They had not settled for mere pain in their quest to break you; they had _violated_ you.

A wave of white-hot anger boiled through me, every nerve ending singing for destruction. I snarled, feeling every muscle in my body tighten and shiver with the utter longing to inflict pain. "I will destroy them," I spat, my mind clouded with rage. "I will hunt them down and I will show them the meaning of pain- how _dare_ they-"

"You're a little late, brother," you said coolly, seemingly already composed as you stood, wrapping the sheets around you and sitting cross-legged on the bed beside me. Your eyes were flat and gave nothing away, but the hard line of your jaw and the slight tremor to your limbs told me that you were still shaken; by what they had done, or by the vehemence of your reaction to me, I could not tell. "Remember your dear friend Stark already nearly sacrificed himself for that noble cause."

"If I had known, Loki, I would have gone there myself- I would have ripped them apart, limb from limb- I would not have stopped until they were bloody and dead at my feet-" I was so angry, so righteously furious, that I did not notice the sad look on your face for long moments. It stopped me short, and I fought to unclench my fists, control my breathing. I could not understand how you could be so calm.

"You snarl and spit over the loss of my virtue, as you so quaintly see it; and yet you see no wrong in how I have been treated by your father for all these years? No injustice in how I was hunted down and mocked by your 'friends?' You care little for anything that does not leave bruises on me."

You were somewhat right, and I was ashamed to realise it. I sometimes thought only of you in relation to me; knowing that you had always been there, I had assumed you always would be, my constant companion and – I admit- my shadow. I had come to think of you yourself as mine, your body my own personal sculpture, to touch and mark as I saw fit.

"I am truly sorry, my brother," I said quietly, my stomach churning into knots as I looked again at your injuries. They stood out starkly against the white of the sheets around you. "Is this why you did not wish to admit you were being controlled? You were ashamed? Brother, you had to know I would ask- you killed many humans, tried to take control-"

"_I never meant for any of it- I-" _ you roared, seeming to gain control of yourself half way through, stopping with your eyes wide and your mouth in mid snarl as you realised what you had said. You rolled your eyes, turned away from me seemingly disgusted with yourself and your momentary weakness. I tried again. "Come with me, Loki- we still have time to speak to Father, we could-"

"_Don't you dare, Thor- you dare say one word to him and I will kill you myself-"_

I raised my hands in surrender. "Fine. I thought you would want to try."

"It's too late for that."

There was a loud knock on my heavy doors. "It is time," the guard's muffled voice came through. I stared in shock at you, and you looked at me almost pleadingly, like you didn't want me to say anything. So I didn't, and I watched in silence as you dressed, your movements painful and stiff, your breathing shallow and laboured. You looked so tired. I cuffed you again, but did not replace the gag. I couldn't.

Leading you to the doors and handing you over to the guards was one of the most painful things I have ever done. I felt as though I was betraying you again.

My promise to you did not stop me from using a different, faster route to the throne room and pleading with my father for your life. I begged, I shouted; I cajoled with him, desperate for him to show some mercy. I was convinced you were coming to your death at his hands, and I could not bear the thought of my responsibility in such a murder.

He was impatient. He did not wish to listen to me, adamant that the death sentence was just; but my-_our_ mother joined me in entreating him, and thankfully, our combined efforts seemed to move him. He waved us away, dismissing us as though we were servants. I asked him to say nothing of my part in the decision. I knew you would never forgive me for showing your weakness to him.

I am truly sorry for that, brother; I can only say that I was desperate to save you, somehow. It matters little anyway- it worked, and that was all I had hoped.

I stood outside the throne room as your sentence was passed; pacing silently and irritably. My heart raced, my head pounding as I tried to listen in and failed, the heavy gold doors too thick for me to overhear one word.

Finally, you were dragged out, seemingly shell-shocked at still being alive but looking deceptively healthy.

"Where is he going?" I demanded of one of your guards.

"Dungeons," he replied. "But he is to change first. No armour."

"I'll take him," I offered, trying to look angry. "I must have words with my traitorous brother." I studiously ignored the raised eyebrow you were giving me and instead took your chains, pulling you as hard as I dared towards your rooms.

Once there, I rushed to unchain you, hope flickering in my chest. You still breathed, and with each breath I saw hope of our future being mended.

You said nothing until I had finished and stepped back. You allowed yourself to slump again, to show your pain, the illusion of arrogance and health dropping from you in a ripple of green light.

"What did you want?" you sighed. "Isn't it enough to see me suffer without gloating?" Slowly, you undressed, changing into the clothes that had been left out for you- no armour, no sign of your royalty. It hurt my chest to think of ruling Asgard without you beside me. "I wish he had just killed me, rather than leaving me to rot in a cage alone for all my years."

"Do not say that, brother," I said softly. "You are alive; there is hope. He will forgive you in time."

"I do not want his forgiveness," you snapped. "I want no forgiveness, no sympathy, nothing! Not from him or from you."

I merely shrugged. What could I say? I always had forgiven you before, no matter what your crime was. I could hardly promise not to do so this time.

"I will visit you every day," I offered, hoping to raise your spirits. "I'm sure I can bring you some good food, some books-"

"I don't want you to," you muttered, not meeting my eyes. "Don't bother."

"You do not mean that." I could not believe it- I didn't believe it, not really. You looked on the verge of tears.

"I do mean it. Don't come and visit me, Thor. I don't want to see you after today. I hate you." I did not know then that you were trying to protect me – and yourself – from further heartache. I saw only my brother, the boy I grew up loving, shutting down in front of my eyes, drawing into himself and beginning to give up. It pained me to see your eyes, so dark and lonely, try to focus on everything but me, your hands shaking at your sides. I pulled you into a hug that you did not return, the only hint that you wanted to a slight leaning of your body into mine. I inhaled your familiar scent once more, memorising each note of it until I could conjure it up out of thin air at night. Every inch of your body was already branded into my mind, your skin's contours memorised in my fingertips. I could not let you go, but I had no choice, the guards already arriving to take you from me. They had to pull you from my grip in order to chain you again.

"Brother," I said, trying to find words to give you a farewell that may keep your spirit alive.

"I am not your brother, _Thor_," you said flatly as you were taken out of the room. "Never call me that again. Your brother is dead."

Much as it carved me out inside, I knew you were right; I had to put you out of my mind, had to attempt to forget you in order to move on. I had no idea that you _wanted_ me to visit; that you were merely being obstinate and attempting to spare pain for us both. I took you at your word- a fault I have often been accused of. I am too simple for you, I fear.

Regardless, I attempted to do as I thought you wished. I tried to rid you from my mind, threw myself into the battles, the training, the day to day tasks of being the son of Odin. Every time I thought I had succeeded, your scent would conjure itself in my memory; or the feel of your skin, silken beneath my tongue, the taste of you, warm and vital. I could not escape you, trapped in a prison of my own memories and desires just as you were in one of magic and stone.

I sank deeper into myself. I allowed my friends to assume I was missing only Jane. They were all too willing to take that explanation rather than to wonder about you. The less they could think of you, the better, as far as they were concerned. I understood; you had caused endless pain and trouble for many people- and yet I found myself resenting their jovial moods and their endless laughter. I watched in envy as they took women- and men- to their beds, as they found solace in the arms of lovers. I could not allow myself the same luxury, not when you were alone and trapped where I could never touch you again.

When I finally came to see you about my plan- when our mother died, and I felt the weight of blame heavy on my shoulders- I was shocked to hear your pain at my lack of visit. You had told me not to, I was merely doing as I was told. I did not realise until much later that you were mercurial as ever in your whims; that you had not meant it and that you _were_ deeply hurt and angered that I had taken you at your word and seemingly forgotten about you- and that I no longer called you brother, even though you had also told me not to do that. I could not apologise for my transgression then; it was too late. By the time I realised what you had meant, you were cold and silent in my arms.

It hadn't been part of the plan- you were never supposed to endanger yourself like that, you stupid _child_. You were supposed to look after Jane, stay with her. It had seemed so simple to me at the beginning; an easy fight that we could not lose, glory and honour on us both. Perhaps Father would have forgiven you- and me, for releasing you. I didn't even think before shoving you out of the path of that strange black hole grenade, noticing that you had done your part in saving Jane from it and feeling the stirrings of hope at your act.

I saw you fighting those creatures, saw your dagger whip through the air like a streak of lightning from my hammer; exhilaration and joy in your features, the like of which I had not seen for many moons. It warmed me to watch you fight so like our mother, deadly and sharp as the blade you wielded. I was already joyous myself; you had not betrayed me when the opportunity had arisen, and I was feeling our old camaraderie as we fought side by side.

Then the Kursed was there in my face, huge and savage; a creature the like of which I had not fought in what felt like forever, its huge strength and weight completely impervious to my attacks. I was wounded, battered, my vision clouded at the edges. I looked up and saw only death waiting for me, Mjolnir useless and out of my reach. I thought you were still busy with the soldiers. I made peace with our Gods and waited for my time to end.

And then you were there, your face contorted with rage, stabbing that brutish monster and for one shining second I felt my heart leap with pride and love; you looked beautiful there, your expression haughty and so like the king you had always wished to be. I almost called out for you, so relieved I was; and then my hope was dashed as you were grabbed, impaled on that same weapon, pushed away like nothing. I barely saw that you had dragged the Kursed into one of his own grenades, I was scrambling to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, my own voice muffled and thick in my throat as I went to you, felt your weight in my arms, so limp, your body shuddering in pain-wracked sobs for breath. I knew it was too late; knew there was nothing to be done for you, not on this forsaken rock of a dead planet. I could only hold you, tell you anything I could to ease your suffering.

I did not know then what you had meant when you told me you hadn't done it for him. I do not think I was hearing anything clearly at that point, my rage and my pain drowning out all noise. I felt the storm surge up around me, drawn by my grief, and I was blind to it and to all else but you, your body already cooling.

You looked so small. Your body was so much smaller than you had seemed alive; like all the vitality and the _you_-ness had gone along with your breath. Your face was ashen, tears streaking your cheeks. I added my own to yours, rocking in anguish and desperate to bring you back. I believe I would have sold my very soul to bring yours home, had I been asked.

The storm raged on.

Finally, I had to leave. It killed me to leave you there, brother. Knowing I could not give you the funeral of a hero, a funeral you so richly deserved; it was another blow to a heart already broken. I am more sorry than I could ever say that I left you. I wish there had been any choice.

Everything after that is a blur; I could not save you and therefore nothing else mattered. I kept my promise, Loki; I told Father that you died with honour. I hope that it will allow him to forgive you. I wish it was not hollow news, delivered on the back of your death. His forgiveness will do you no good now.

I miss you, my brother. I wish that I could take it back.


End file.
